


Half a Dog Tall, Two Dogs Long: On the Love of My First Dog

by Meriah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autobiography, Childhood, Children, Dog - Freeform, Dogs, Gen, Memoir, Memories, Pet, Pets, Puppies, dachshund, dachshunds, girls, puppy, self - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meriah/pseuds/Meriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A memoir of the day I got my first dog, a dachshund puppy named Chancey, and the lifelong obsession that would come with adoring this most comical of breeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half a Dog Tall, Two Dogs Long: On the Love of My First Dog

**Half a Dog Tall, Two Dogs Long:**

**On the Love of My First Dog**

 

Dachshund people are unlike other dog people. Leashed by a common interest, they form cliques as if to relive their middle school years. Dachshund people will instinctively stop to chat during their walks – sometimes to the dismay of their own pooches – while they may ignore other dog-walkers. Dachshund people congregate for social gatherings from picnics to dachshund races at an Oktoberfest (Lederhosen or dirndl for the human? Check. Hot dog costume for the dog? Check, but beware of a possible bite). These fanatics can also be found scoring eBay for dachshund-themed paraphernalia, proudly wearing shirts of their beloved breed, and dressing their dogs in costumes. Yet perhaps above all, such people fail to acknowledge that _they_ are owned; _they_ are the jesters to canine monarchs.

 

To have a dachshund is to have a breed like no other, for with it comes an admiration that rapidly evolves into obsession. “Dachshunddom” is an exclusive club that may be called a cult by all other dog people – and especially cat people – for such lunatics have no shame as they devote themselves to their short-legged gods.

 

I say this now, taking a glance at items in this room. There is the calendar mounted proudly on the wall that features a year of dachshunds. Near me, the futon has been converted into a showcase for dachshund sweatshirt – or at least this is my excuse to ignore the laundry. There is also the early birthday present I received last week that is a glass dachshund sporting a red hat. And finally, upon my boyfriend's _Princeton_ _Amp_ is Slinky from the _Toy Story_ series.

 

* * *

 

The ad in the _Classifieds_ appeared trivial, for it lacked the influence of its bold or italicized neighbors. It stated simply at the bottom of the page: “Dachshund puppies for sale. Hudson, NH” with a phone number. However, it did hold power over Mom as her eyes widened and her mouth crooked into a smile like a child in a fudge shop. Then as if driven by possession, her hands snatched the telephone while nearly knocking the receiver off the wall. She dialed the number, and after receiving directions she told me to grab my coat.

 

“But Mom, I'm not done eating,” I said with Lucky Charms floating in my bowl.

 

“Well finish up. We're getting a puppy!”

 

“A _puppy_?!” Disbelief thundered through my seven-year-old body. Zealously for years, my brother and I begged for a canine to become the final piece in our family puzzle.

 

“Yes, I'm serious,” she answered. Her smile remained present and it caught me off guard. Yet I could see the truth emit from her. It was then that bliss struck me – the purest white bliss which can only radiate from a child's heart.

 

Without hesitance, I leapt from my seat and out the door to get into the Buick Regal. Mom came out after me within seconds. In one hand was my coat; in the other, a paper plate with the directions in cursive – writing on anything is the sign of a distracted mother, after all. Only seconds after fastening my seatbelt, the car pulled onto the road toward north. We talked over the bombinating of radio.

 

Hudson was only about a half hour from my suburban home, yet that drive seemed as long as traveling the Oregon Trail by covered wagon. Somewhere near the Tyngsboro-Nashua line we stopped at a convenience store for verification of directions, Mom smoked a drawn-out cigarette, and then we continued onward.

 

We pulled into a gravel driveway with the pinging of rocks under the tires. The gray-blue of winter sky reached down to kiss the crusted earth. It was February, and yet the ground was dry. Horses trampled the soil below in the backdrop, their hooves raising dust particles into the air. We parked before a charming ranch-style house. “Come in!” echoed from behind the door.

 

As we entered, I immediately noticed a large greyhound statue postured in the center of the living room. It seemed tacky against the view of china cups, old furniture, and peeling wallpaper.

 

Mom and the woman – her name escapes me, but let us call her something generic like Debbie – exchanged formalities. I anxiously waited to pick an individual from the knot of puppies, a lump of paws and whimpers and a scrawny tail. Instead, a horse starred me down from the paddock immediately beyond the kitchen window.

 

Debbie offered coffee, rested her large bottom on a rickety chair. She said, “At this point there is only one left. The runt, to be frank.”

 

Suspiciously, Debbie did not present us with the litter and dam. In my childhood ignorance, I failed to realize the classic red flag of a backyard breeding operation. Rather, she distracted us with conversation while her husband went to the barn to retrieve the lone puppy.

 

When the man returned, any expectation of what a dog _should_ look like evaporated in the moment that I gazed upon the two pound dachshund. Resembling a bloated rat, his appearance was both comical _and_ cute. His eyes met my own before he took a yawn, having been awoken from a nap. I cradled the tiny animal, my body heat melting into him.

 

_Precious_ – that was what he was; the only word that could truly define him. I thought this as I studied his black and tan coat that was dappled in white. A slight knock of fear ran through me too, for he was so tiny that injury was possible.

 

With the writing of a check to finalize the agreement, Mom and I were rushed out the door. Why Debbie had refused to be more informative about her operation seemed bizarre to me, but not enough to ask questions.

 

Mom and I got in the car and left. The smile was still bright on her face. Every so often she looked over at me in the front passenger seat and the puppy swaddled in a baby blanket. I kept him on my lap, hands running over him, comforting him as he released soft yelps. Then I brought him close to my chest, and in that moment of tenderness that can only be shared between a child and her pet, I think I felt his heartbeat against my own.

 

Oh yes, this puppy – Chancey – would be responsible for my eternal obsession with a particular breed. I was unknowingly becoming one of those _dachshund people_ , with their paraphernalia, social gatherings and message boards. I was to be grouped with the eccentric bunch of the dog lovers world; the people who prefer things that come two dogs long, half a dog high.

 

Yet above all...

 

Chancey would come to teach me the definition of unconditional love. In the years to come, this dog would show me everlasting loyalty, devotion, and friendship. Alone in the darkness, he would nuzzle me with a wet nose. In the summer, he would chase after me through wild grass that towered over him. And he would come to know me more so than anyone – animal or human, for that is the connection that can only be experienced through a person and their dog.

 

“Dogs and their emotions give us a connection.

A connection to life on earth, to all that binds and cradles us, lest we begin to feel too alone.

Dogs are our bridge - our connection of who we really are, and most tellingly, who we want to be.

When we call them home to us, it's as if we are calling for home itself.”

_\- Paticia B. McConnell_


End file.
